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“Some girls and boys are shy with strangers...people they are just meeting,” Emma suggested.
But Mason doubted it.
Birdie considered this. “Maybe,” she allowed. “Is this a nice place to live?”
“Yes, it is. I’m the schoolteacher here,” Emma said.
Oh, Mason thought. Another indication that this lady’s situation had altered. Just like his had. His hopes about her dimmed further. A woman with a paying job would not need a husband.
Birdie’s eyes widened. “You’re the teacher? Charlotte and me were supposed to start school this year in Illinois.”
“Oh?” Emma’s voice sounded a bit uncertain.
And no wonder. Mason had been at a loss how Mrs. Hawkins thought his girls could attend school. After all, Charlotte wouldn’t be able to hear the teacher.
Again, Birdie’s fingers were busy talking to Charlotte.
Charlotte replied in kind and appeared to be scolding her friend.
“Oh, Charlotte still thinks she can’t go to school,” Birdie added.
Exactly, Mason commented mentally.
“Children need to go to school,” Emma said. “All children.”
Mason looked away. His little sister would only be the recipient of stares and unkind words. And he wouldn’t let that happen.
Only three-quarters of a mile separated the two homesteads, so very soon he glimpsed his place—the sturdy log barn and cabin. After all the years of war and then wandering, he had once again a home to return to and now he had his sister and Birdie, too. His heart twinged at the thought. He was glad, but when he cast a sideways glance at the lady near him, he was sad. He’d hoped to employ finesse over when to meet and get to know Emma. But Birdie had even blurted out the cause of Charlotte’s deafness. What might have been would probably never be.
Then he saw something that shocked him. Behind his cabin, a corn field was tall and green and golden, nearing harvest. “What?” He halted right there.
Emma stopped, too. “What is it?”
“I...how do I have a corn crop?”
She followed his gaze. “Oh, yes, Asa planted your fields, one of corn and one of hay.”
“He...” Mason couldn’t speak from the shock and the feeling of being humbled by a friend’s help.
“And ours got wrecked,” the silent boy suddenly spoke with plain disgust.
Mason swung to him. “Yours? You mean Asa’s crop? Wrecked? How?”
“Yeah, a bad man drove his horses through it, trampled it bad,” the boy said.
Mason shifted his attention back to Emma. “What happened?”
“Just what the boy said,” she replied, looking unhappy. “The culprit left the county, though the sheriff has a warrant out for his arrest.”
Mason couldn’t ask any more questions. The thought of Asa planting his crops while losing his own was too much to take in.
“Want me to drive the cows into the barn?” the boy asked.
“Yes, I’ll just put the cases inside and be out to help you. Thanks.” Mason turned to Emma, ready to let her go. She must be as uncomfortable in this situation as he was. “Thank you for your help.”
She paused, studying him. “I will sweep out your cabin before I leave.”
She must be offering to do this because of the girls. He couldn’t believe she was staying for his sake. “That’s not necessary—”
“I know it’s not, but you’ll have enough to do settling the cattle and getting firewood and water inside. Dusting and sweeping won’t take long.” She paused to touch first Birdie’s, then Charlotte’s shoulder. “The girls can help me.”
“We can help!” Birdie parroted with glee.
He again realized that Miss Emma was a very kind lady. Gratitude clogged his throat. Overhead the sun was sliding toward the western horizon. He needed to do the things she’d mentioned, get the house fit for occupation so he and the girls could settle in before night. Finally he regained his voice. “Thank you, Miss Jones.”
“Thank you, Miss Emma!” Birdie crowed.
Mason hurried ahead, unlocked the chain he’d secured the cabin door with and pushed it open. He set the baggage just inside and shed his traveling jacket on a peg on the wall by the door. Then he turned back to the barn. “I’ll go see to the cattle.”
* * *
“Fine,” Emma said, watching Mason go with both relief and a touch of regret. This man, whom she’d already come to respect, carried a heavy load, and she had volunteered to help in the small way she could. But she must not let sympathy lure her from her new, independent life. She brushed away these thoughts of Mason Chandler.
“Girls,” she announced briskly, “let’s go inside to see how much dust we need to clean away.” She strode through the open door and then paused to let her eyes adjust to the dimmer interior. The little girls, one on each side of her, peered in also.
Dust covered every surface of a sparsely furnished one-room cabin—a short counter attached to the wall with a dishpan on it, two benches, one on each side of a table, two handmade straight-back chairs by the central fireplace, and a bed in the corner. Emma surveyed the home that would have been hers if events had followed the course she’d expected.
She much preferred her cozy teacher’s quarters where she could do as she pleased. She took off her bonnet and hung it on a peg by the door. The girls shed theirs and she hung them up, too, since the hooks were too high for them to reach.
“It’s dusty,” Birdie commented.
“It is indeed.” Emma glimpsed a broom standing in the corner and several cloths hanging over the side of the dishpan. “I will sweep and the two of you can begin dusting.” She glanced down. “Do you know how to dust?”
“Yes, miss,” Birdie replied. “We dusted every week in Illinois.”
“Good.” She handed them each a cloth and claimed the broom.
“We sing while we dust,” Birdie informed her.
“What do you sing?” Emma asked, intrigued.
Birdie replied in song, “Ain’t gonna let nobody turn me ’roun’; Turn me ’roun’.”
Emma couldn’t like the ain’ts, but the song sounded cheerful, and she liked the sentiment. Nobody was going to turn her ’round, either. She had her new course as Pepin schoolteacher set, and she would follow it.
Soon she found herself sweeping up acorn tops and other evidence of squirrels. A thump against the side of the house startled her. Then she heard footsteps overhead. She looked up as if she could see through the ceiling.
The sound of scratching came down through the fireplace.
“What’s that, Miss Emma?” Birdie asked, also looking up.
“I think Mr. Chandler may be cleaning out debris from the top of the chimney.” She approached the fireplace and craned her neck to look up inside it.
Then she heard it—the sound of boots sliding down wooden shingles and a yell and finally a thump outside. Her heart lurched. “Oh, no!”
Birdie cried out in fear and ran to her with Charlotte close behind.
Emma hurried to the door and outside into the daylight, the girls at her heels.
Mason lay on the ground, flat on his back, not moving.
Emma gasped. How badly was he hurt? She rushed toward him and met Colton, who had run from the barn. Emma dropped to her knees, yet stopped herself from touching him. “Mr. Chandler?” she repeated his name several times.
She looked across at Colton, who stood on the man’s other side, looking as worried as she felt. She leaned forward over Mason’s mouth and turned her cheek to feel his warm breath. She felt it. Relief ruffled through her. “He’s breathing.”
Then she became aware of the fact that the two little girls were crying. “Don’t cry, Birdie. Tell Charlotte her brother’s breathing. He’ll be fine.” I hope.
All Mason Chandler and Birdie had revealed today had captured her interest, her sympathy. But that was all she could give him. Nothing more. She was independent at last, teaching school, which she’d always wanted to do. She was grateful Mason had released her from their agreement to marry. She would help him now but keep her distance.
Chapter Two (#ubdc00e85-5f05-5cbd-a5c9-2ca880e6a0a0)
Mason blinked. He couldn’t think. But he could see Emma’s face just inches above his. “You’re so good,” he whispered. “And you could have been mine.”
Her eyes widened. “Mr. Chandler? Can you hear me?”
Silly question. Of course he could hear her, see her. He realized then that he was lying on the prickly grass, looking up at the blue sky. Crowded around him were his girls and Asa’s boy. Why was Emma on her knees beside him? “What happened?” He moved to sit up.
With her small hand on his chest, Emma pressed him back. “Take it easy. You’ve been unconscious for a couple of minutes. You fell from the roof.”
He closed his eyes and the memory returned, his sliding off the roof. That breathless jolt of panic. “I stepped on a loose shingle and lost my balance.”
“That could happen to anyone,” Emma murmured. She slipped her hand under his head. “You don’t have a bump. Does your head hurt?”
“A bit.” He appreciated Emma’s trying to soothe his dented pride, but he noticed then that Charlotte was crying and that Birdie, with tears running down her cheeks, was comforting her. He stirred himself. “I’ll be all right, girls. Don’t worry, Charlotte.” He tried to work his fingers to sign but he couldn’t. “I’ll be all right,” he repeated. He watched Birdie sign this to his sister, but she continued to cry. He could see the fear on her face. I must get up and show I’m all right, he thought to himself. He tried to sit up again.
Emma pressed him back once more. “First let’s make sure you’ve not hurt anything seriously.”
He glanced up at her, very aware of her being so close to him. He hoped she hadn’t heard him say, “You’re so good,” or, worse, “You could have been mine.” He cringed inwardly, hoping he hadn’t said that aloud. The words were true but too personal and embarrassing in the extreme.
“Start by moving each part of you and see if you feel any sharp pain,” she counseled.
He didn’t want to obey. He just wanted to stand up, thank her for her help and hurry her along home. Her presence was bringing forth feelings he didn’t want to explore. But yes, he might have hurt himself, so her instruction made sense. He didn’t want to make matters any worse than they were. He obliged her, moving his neck and working down his body, moving each arm individually and rotating each joint—shoulders, elbows, wrists, knees.
All was well till he tested his ankles one at a time. “Uhhh.” The pain-filled syllable was forced out when he rotated his right ankle.
Emma glanced down. “I think you can safely sit up. But perhaps you should first push down your stocking so we can see your ankle.”
Once again he obliged.
“Oh, it’s swelling,” she said as they both stared at the flushed ankle. “But you were able to rotate it, so that should mean it’s just a sprain. It will heal in about a week without any further problem. When we were children, my brother suffered a sprain after falling from a tree. I know what to do.”
Mason could not believe he was in this situation. And he’d fallen while she was nearby. Humiliation. “I have so much to do. I can’t be laid up.”
“Well, we can’t do anything about that until we take care of your ankle.” She rose and rested a gentle hand on Birdie’s shoulder. “Explain everything to Charlotte and let her know this isn’t serious.” Then she turned to Colton. “Please run into the house and bring out a chair. Birdie, please go get the water bucket inside the door.”
He tried to make sense of her instructions but the wind had been knocked out of him and he felt depleted somehow. I guess falling off a roof does take it out of a man. He grimaced ruefully.
Soon after instructing Colton to stand behind the chair to steady it, Emma helped Mason sit up. “Now the chair is right behind you. When you’re ready to stand, I want you to put your hands on my shoulders so I can steady you as you push up onto your good foot. I’m sure you have the strength to stand, but favoring your ankle will put you off balance. So hold on to me.” Stooping, she positioned herself in front of him.
He parted his lips to refuse her help.
“Seeing you fall again will only upset Charlotte more,” she whispered in his ear.
Her warm breath against his ear stirred him. And her words persuaded him to do as she suggested. “I’m ready.” He reached up and gripped her slender shoulders. He pushed up, staggered. She steadied him as he landed in the chair. A touch of vertigo and sharp pain in his ankle vied with his reaction to being so near Emma Jones. She smelled of roses. He closed his eyes momentarily, marshaling all his self-control against the pain and against the temptation to reach for her. He leaned against the back of the chair. “Thank you.”
She stifled a chuckle.
His eyes flew open in surprise.
“Sorry.” She looked abashed and amused at the same time. “I caught myself just before I said, ‘My pleasure.’ It’s silly how certain words trigger other words, isn’t it?”
He didn’t feel anything like smiling, but she drew one from him anyway. “I know what you mean.” He gazed at this woman who was surprising him in so many ways. She had a sense of humor. He liked that. Then he shifted in his chair slightly, and that tiny movement caused pain to shoot through his ankle and up his calf. He held in a gasp.
Charlotte moved to his side and pressed against him. He put an arm around her and kissed her forehead. He haltingly signed that he would be fine and she shouldn’t worry. Or he hoped that was what he said. His grasp of sign language still did not rival Birdie’s.
Emma stepped away, primed the pump, filled the bucket and made him rest his foot in cold water up over his ankle. He noted that she tried not to look directly at him and wondered if it was just this situation. After all, she had volunteered only to dust, not to take care of him. Or was it just her not wanting to be here with him?
“I know most people put sprains in hot water,” Emma said, standing in front of him, “but my mother always told me that cold water does best to reduce swelling. I hope Judith still has some goose grease. That works amazingly on sprains.”
He nodded. The cold water was painful on his throbbing ankle. Goose grease. Good grief.
Emma stood near him, scanning the area and obviously thinking. “Children, we need to do the chores. Mr. Chandler isn’t able—”
“I’ll be fine. Just give me a few minutes—”
“Mr. Chandler,” she interrupted, “of course it’s understandable that you don’t want us to do what needs to be done, but you are going to have limited mobility for several days.”
He wanted to argue but the throbbing in his ankle underlined her words. He nodded, head down.
She turned to the boy. “Colton, Mr. Chandler is going to need a crutch. I want you to go in the woods and find a young tree about this thick.” She curved her hands together, leaving about a three-inch-diameter opening. “Take a hatchet and cut it off and bring it here.” She turned to Mason. “While you’re soaking your ankle, you can fashion it into a crude crutch.”
Mason nodded, pulling out his pocket knife. Disagreeing would be pointless and graceless. And he still felt shaken. I should have been more careful. Why couldn’t anything go right this year? His one hope was that the words he’d said upon regaining consciousness had been inaudible. So far Emma had given him no indication that she’d heard his much too personal words.
* * *
“You’re so good. And you could have been mine.” Mason’s words played in her mind much later that unexpectedly stressful day. Now she walked beside him up the forest track on their way to Judith’s for supper. He was balancing himself on the crutch he and Colton had contrived out of a young tree, now stripped of its bark with cushioning rags wrapped around the crook under his arm.
“Are you sure—” she began again.
